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THE  LOVER'S   RUBAIYAT 


THE 

LOVER'S  RUBAIYAT 

EDITED  BY 
JESSIE  B.  RITTEN  HOUSE 


SMALL,  MAYNARD  &•  COMPANY 
BOSTON,  MCMVI 


Copyright^  1904,  hy 

Small,  Maynard  6*  Company 

(Incorporated) 


Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall 

Published  May,  1904 

Second  Edition  September,  1906 


LOVERS  ALL 

To  ye  who  walk  in  blossomy  ways, 
Acquaint  with  rose  and  song, 
Within  whose  hand  each  morrow  lays 
The  gift  for  which  ye  long,  — 
1,  too,  acquaint  with  Joy,  bequeath 
These  notes  of  Omar's  song. 

To  ye  who  walk  in  parched  ways, 

Bereft  of  rose  and  song. 

Within  whose  hand  no  morrow  lays 

The  gift  for  which  ye  long,  — 

I,  too,  acquaint  with  Pain,  bequeath 

These  notes  of  Omar's  song. 

Jessie  B.  Rittenhouse. 


CRITICS  ALL 

**  Another  Omar  !  *' — saj^est  thou?  — 
"  Thou  'It  cast  it  to  the  winds,  I  trow !  " 

Nay,  good  my  friend,  be  not  so  fast 
Thine  ill-considered  scorn  to  cast ; 

But  look  within  and  thou  shalt  see 
Foregathered  a  new  companie : 

Old  Fitz  is  here  to  make  his  bow. 
But  soothly  yields  the  foreground  now, 

For  here  are,  sharing  his  demesne, 

Le  Gallienne,  Garner,  Stokes,  and  Keene ; 

And  Powell  casts  a  fadeless  rose 
In  tribute  at  the  feet  of  those ; 

And  Cutter,  Johnson,  and  Cadell 
Have  each  a  gracious  word  to  tell. 

While  Whinfield,  of  the  graver  voice, 
Adds  now  and  then  a  precept  choice 


To  counsels  of  the  band  above, 
Whose  jocund  morning  theme  is  Love. 

You  scarce  will  know  old  Omar's  face 
A-smiling  with  such  pleasant  grace. 

The  Door  of  Darkness  now  is  past, 
And  this  his  counsel  at  the  last: 

To  loose  the  latchet  at  Love's  gate. 
Unties  the  Knot  of  Human  Fate ; 

And  in  the  meadows  for  a  day, 
With  Beauty  hand  in  hand  to  stray 

Shall  solve  the  Secret  you  and  I 

Seek,  'neath  that  Bowl  they  call  The  Sky. 

Of  voices  several  their  speech, 
Yet  blended  to  one  tone  is  each ; 

So,  good  my  friend,  new  notes  be  these  — 
Speak  them  good  hearing,  an'  you  please. 

J.  B.  R. 


FOREWORD 

The  motif  of  this  little  volume  is  indicated 
by  its  title,  *'The  Lover's  Rubdiydt ;''  —  a 
hook  for  sweethearts,  and  unforgetting  folk 
who  would  gather  joys  wind-strewn  petals,  to 
fashion  again  the  rose. 

The  poem  was  mosaiced  together,  some 
time  ago,  as  a  matter  of  personal  pleasure, 
with  no  vainglorious  thought  of  print ;  the 
idea  suggesting  itself  by  chance,  when,  in 
preparing  a  three-version  edition  oj  Omar 
Khayyam,  I  came  upon  certain  quatrains  of 
sentiment  not  used  by  Fit:(^Gerald,  and  sound- 
ing a  comparatively  unaccented  note  in  the 
more  familiar  translations. 

The  charm  of  these  quatrains  took  me 
captive,  and  ere  long  they  began  shaping 
to  a  unity  and  sequence,  drawing  together 
by  magnetic  attraction,  until,  with  such 
stanzas  from  FitiGerald  as    seemed  their 


complement  in  thought,  they  had  evolved  to 
a  Persian  love  song,  having  all  the  coherence 
and  atmosphere  of  the  work  of  a  single  trans- 
lator, yet  blended,  note  by  note,  from  that 
of  ten. 

IVith  two  or  three  exceptions  the  transla- 
tions from  which  the  quatrains  are  taken 
are  little  known  to  the  public,  so  that  not 
only  is  their  grouping  into  a  love  poem 
unique,  but,  except  to  students  of  Omar,  the 
majority  of  the  quatrains  themselves  will  come 
as  new  acquaintances. 

The  stanzas  are  drawn  from  the  renderings 
of  Edward  Fit^Gerald,  Richard  Le  Gal- 
lienne,  John  Leslie  Garner,  E.  H.  Whinfield, 
Whitely  Stokes,  H.  G.  Keene,  Jessie  E.  Ca- 
dell,  F.  York  Powell,  Edwin  Kendall  Cutter ^ 
and  E.  A.  Johnson, 


The  acknowledgments  of  the  editor  and  of 
the  publishers  are  due  to  Mr.  John  Lane  for 
permission  to  make  use  of  stanzas  from  The 
Rubdiydt  of  Omar  Khayyam :  A  Paraphrase 
from  Several  Literal  Translations,  by  Richard 
Le  Gallienne,  and  from  Mrs.  Jessie  E.  CadelPs 
translation  of  the  Rubdiydt ;  to  Messrs.  Henry 
T.  Coates  &  Company  for  permission  to  in- 
clude quatrains  from  the  translation  of  Omar 
Khayyam,  by  John  Leslie  Garner;  to  Mr. 
Elkin  Mathews  for  the  use  of  extracts  from 
Twenty-four  Quatrains  of  Omar,  by  F.  York 
Powell,  and  to  Mr.  Edwin  Kendall  Cutter  for 
permission  to  include  quatrains  from  his  ren- 
dering of  twenty-two  of  the  Rubdiydt. 


THE    LOVER'S    RUBAIYAT 


t 


iTHE   LOVER'S   RUBAIYAT 


I O  love,  how  green  the  world,  how  blue  the  sky 
iAnd  we  are  living  —  living  —  you  and  I ! 
]  Ah,  when  the  sun  shines  and  our  love  is  near, 
'  T  is  good  to  live,  and  very  hard  to  die. 


tm 


0  listen,  love,  how  all  the  builders  sing ! 

,  O  sap !  O  song !  O  green  world  blossoming! 
[white  as  the  hand  of  Moses  blooms  the  thorn, 
r  Sweet  as  the  breath  of  Jesus  comes  the  spring. 

3 

1  pray  you,  gentle  Saki,  of  your  grace. 
Carry  the  wine-jar  to  some  pleasant  place, 

y-  Where,  in  a  green  and  rose-hung  sanctuary, 
I  '11  gaze  all  day  on  my  beloved's  face. 


To-day  how  sweetly  breathes  the  temperate  air, 
The  rains  have  newly  laved  the  parched  parterre, 


And  bulbuls  cry  in  notes  of  ecstasy, 
**Thou,  too,  O  pallid  rose,  our  wine   must 
share ! '' 

5 
Sweet  is  the  breath  of  spring  to  rose's  face, 
And  thy  sweet  face  adds  charm  to  this  fair 

place ; 
To-day  is  sweet,  but  yesterday  is  sad, 
And  sad  all  mention  of  its  parted  grace. 

6 

Sweetheart,  if  Time  a  cloud  on  thee  have  flung, 
To  think  the  breath  must  leave  thee,  now  so 

young. 
Sit  here  upon  the  grass,  a  day  or  two, 
While  yet  no  grass  from  thy  dust  shall  have 

sprung. 

7 
For,  have  you  thought  how  short  a  time  is  ours  ? 
Only  a  little  longer  than  the  flowers : 
Here  in  the  meadow  just  a  summer's  day. 
Only  to-day ;  to-morrow  —  other  flowers. 


8 

Ah,  loved  one,  when  the  laughing  spring  is 

blowing, 
With  thee  beside  me  and  the  cup  o'erflowing, 
I  pass  the  day  upon  this  fragrant  meadow, 
And  dream  the  while,  no  thought  on  heaven 

bestowing. 

9 
A  Book  of  Verses  underneath  the  Bough, 
A  Jug  of  Wine,  a  Loaf  of  Bread  —  and  Thou 
Beside  me  singing  in  the  Wilderness  — 
Oh,  Wilderness  were  Paradise  enow ! 

10 

Some  for  the  Glories  of  This  W^orld ;  and  some 
Sigh  for  the  Prophet's  Paradise  to  come  ; 
Ah,  take  the  Cash,  and  let  the  Credit  go, 
Nor  heed  the  rumble  of  a  distant  Drum ! 

11 

Think,  in  this  batter'd  Caravanserai 
Whose  Portals  are  alternate  Night  and  Day, 


How  Sultan  after  Sultan  with  his  Pomp 
Abode  his  destined  Hour,  and  went  his  way. 

12 
Long  before  thee  and  me  were  Night  and  Morn, 
For  some  great  end  the  sky  is  round  us  borne ; 
Upon  this  dust,  ah,  step  with  careful  foot. 
Some  beauty's  eyeball  here  may  lie  forlorn. 

13 

A  sighing  bit  of  breathing  clay,  this  vase 
Once  humbly  bowed  before  a  woman's  face ; 
This  earthen  handle  fixed  about  its  neck 
Did  oft  in  love  a  cypress  form  embrace. 

14 
For  even  this  dust  that  blows  along  the  street 
Once  whispered  to  its  love  that  life  was  sweet, 
Ruddy  with  wine  it  was,  with  roses  crowned, 
And  now  you  spurn  it  with  your  eager  feet. 

15 
When  You  and  I  behind  the  Veil  are  past. 
Oh,  but  the  long,  long  while  the  World  shall 
last, 


Which  of  our  Coming  and  Departure  heeds 
As  the  Sea's  self  should  heed  a  pebble-cast. 


16 

Come,  bring  that  Ruby  in  yon  crystal  bowl, 
That  brother  true  of  every  open  soul ; 
Thou  knowest  overwell  this  life  of  ours 
Is  wind  that  hurries  by  —  O  bring  the  bowl ! 


17 
For  some  we  loved,  the  loveliest  and  the  best 
That  from  his  Vintage  rolling  Time  hath  prest, 
Have  drunk  their  Cup  a  Round  or  two  before, 
And  one  by  one  crept  silently  to  rest. 

18 

The  bird  of  life  is  singing  on  the  bough 
His  two  eternal  notes  of  '*  I  and  Thou  "  — 
O!    hearken  well,  for  soon  the  song  sings 

through, 
And,  would  we  hear  it,  we  must  hear  it  now. 


19 
The  bird  of  life  is  singing  in  the  sun, 
Short  is  his  song,  nor  only  just  begun,  — 
A  call,  a  trill,  a  rapture,  then  —  so  soon !  — 
A  silence,  and  the  song  is  done  —  is  done. 

20 

Ah,  fill  the  Cup !  —  what  boots  it  to  repeat 
How  Time  is  slipping  underneath  our  Feet ; 
Unborn  to-morrow  and  dead  yesterday, 
Why  fret  about  them  if  to-day  be  sweet ! 

21 

Were  I  a  Sultkn,  say  what  greater  bliss 

Were  mine  to  summon  to  my  side  than  this,  — 

Dear  gleaming    face,  far   brighter  than  the 

moon! 
O  Love !  and  this  immortalizing  kiss ! 

22 

On  Love's  sweet  path   pursue  the  oflfering 

heart, 
In  Love's  own  precinct  seek  a  perfect  heart, 


A  hundred  temples  are  but  beaten  clay, 
Let  be  the  temple,  so  thou  find  a  heart. 

23 

If  in  this  shadowland  of  life  thou  hast 
Found  one  true  heart  to  love  thee,  hold  it  fast, 
Love  it  again,  give  all  to  keep  it  thine, 
For  love  like  nothing  in  this  world  can  last. 


24 

Long  have  1  sought,  but  seldom  found  a  lover ; 
To  love  aright  is  to  be  naught  but  lover. 
He  who  would  love,  yet  eat  and  rest  him,  too, 
Is  still  an  animal,  and  not  a  lover. 


25 

For  love  is  a  great  sleepless,  floodless  fire. 
Love  never  moves  his  eyes  from  his  desire ; 
Were   love  to  sleep,  —  awaking,  love  were 

gone; 
And  what  gross  sustenance  should  love  require  ? 


26 

I  dreamt  a  sage  said, ''  Wherefore  life  consume 
In  sleep  ?    Can  sleep  make  pleasure's  roses 

bloom  ? 
Forgather    not    with    Death's    twin-brother, 

Sleep ; 
Thou  wilt  have  sleep  enough  within  thy  tomb !  " 


27 

Why  at  the  Dawning  must  the  cock  still  crow  ? 
It  is  that  by  his  crowing  he  may  show 
That  one  more  Night  has  slid  from  out  thy  Life, 
And  thou  art  lying  asleep  and  dost  not  know. 


28 

To-day  is  thine  to  spend,  but  not  to-morrow, 
Counting  on  morrows  breedeth  naught  but 

sorrow ; 
Oh !   squander  not  this  breath  that   Heaven 

hath  lent  thee, 
Nor  make  too  sure  another  breath  to  borrow ! 


29 
Whether  at  NaishipOr  or  Babylon, 
Whether  the  Cup  with  sweet  or  bitter  run, 
The  Wine  of  Life  keeps  oozing  drop  by  drop, 
The  Leaves  of  Life  keep  falling  one  by  one. 

30 
Look  to  the  blowing  Rose  about  us  —  "  Lo, 
Laughing,"  she  says,  "into  the  world  I  blow, 
At  once  the  silken  tassel  of  my  Purse 
Tear,  and  its  Treasure  on  the  Garden  throw/' 

31 
Rose,  thou  art  like  unto  a  Face  most  fair; 
Rose,  thou  art  like  unto  a  Ruby  rare ; 
Fate,  thou  art  ever  changing  shape  and  hue, 
Yet  ever  hast  the  same  familiar  air. 

32 

Sometimes  it  is  my  fancy  to  suppose 
The  rose  thy  face  —  so  like  thy  face  it  glows ; 
O  woman  made  of  roses  out  and  in, 
Sometimes  I  only  take  thee  for  a  rose. 


33 
Ah,  with  what  skill  thy  Maker's  hand  designed 

thee, 
And  with  what  grace  and  loveliness  combined 

thee, 
But  oft  I  wonder  why  He  made  thee  fair 
And  then  in  this  poor  earthen  home  confined 

thee. 

34 
Into  this  Universe,  and  tVhy  not  knowing, 
Nor  Whence,  like  Water  willy-nilly  flowing, 
And  out  of  it,  as  Wind  along  the  Waste, 
I  know  not  Whither,  willy-nilly  blowing. 

35 
At  the  pale  gate  of  birth  an  angel  stands 
Singing  a  lying  song  of  lovely  lands, 
Sweet  as  a  bird  each  worn  and  weary  lie,  — 
The  soul  believes  and  takes  the  angel's  hands. 

36 

Of  all  the  Throng  that  broke  the  Clay  apart, 
Who  hath  fulfilled  the  Longing  of  his  Heart, 


Who  is  not  weary  ere  his  Sleep  begins  ?  - 
O  that  we  never  had  to  make  the  Start ! 


37 

If  Mortals  out  of  Loam  and  Rot  He  made, 
Where  should  the  burden  of  our  Sin  be  laid  ? 
Surely  He  did  not  hope  with  such  poor  Stuff 
The  Roles  of  Priest  and  Angel  could  be  played ! 

38 

And  if  He  does  not  know  what  will  we  gain 
If  we  go  searching  to  add  Pain  to  Pain  ? 
He  has  lived  longer,  sure,  than  Me  or  You  ; 
Set  on  Your  puny  Task,  for  His  is  vain ! 


39 

Alike  for  those  who  for  to-day  prepare. 
And  those  who  after  some  to-morrow  stare, 
A  Muezzin  from  the  Tower  of  Darkness  cries, 
"  Fools !  your  Reward   is  neither  Here  nor 
There !  " 


40 

A  Moment's  Halt  —  a  momentary  taste 
Of  Being  from  the  Well  amid  the  Waste  — 
And  Lo  !  the  phantom  Caravan  has  reacht 
The  Nothing  it  set  out  from— Oh  make 
haste! 

41 

Ah,  make  the  most  of  what  we  yet  may  spend, 
Before  we  too  into  the  Dust  descend ; 
Dust  into  Dust  and  under  Dust  to  lie. 
Sans  Wine,  sans  Song,  sans  Singer,  and  — 
sans  End ! 

42 

Thou  shalt  be  parted  from  thy  soul,  and  then 

Enter  God's  veil  of  mystery  again. 

Be  glad !  For  whence  you  came  you  do  not 

know ; 
Drink  !  For  you  wist  as  little  where  you  go. 

43 

And  if  the  Wine  you  drink,  the  Lip  you  press, 
End  in  what  All  begins  and  ends  in  —  Yes ; 


Think  then  you  are  to-day  what  yesterday 
You  were  —  TO-MORROW  you  shall  not  be 
less. 

44 

Ah,  when  at  last  the  shrouded  Saki,  Death 
Brings  me  a  cup  so  sweet  it  takes  my  breath, 
Shall  I  not  bid  him  welcome  like  his  brother  ? 
Life  I  have  feared  not,  shall  I  then  fear  Death  ? 


45 

For  if  you  cheat  Oblivion  of  its  Dread, 
You  need  not  even  know  that  you  are  dead, 
And  rule  alway,  although  your  Rule  is  done  ; 
Being  a  King  of  Dreams,  your  Kingdom  fled. 


46 

The  Heart  wherein   Love's  wick  burns  clear 

and  well, 
Whether  it  swing  in  Mosque  or  shrine  or  cell, 
If  in  the  Book  of  Love  it  be  enrolled 
Is  free  from  Hope  of  Heaven  or  Fear  of  Hell. 


47 
Although  God's  service  has  not  been  my  care, 
Nor  for  His  coming  was  my  heart  made  fair, 
I  still  have  hope  to  find  the  mercy-seat 
Because  I  never  wearied  Him  with  prayer. 

48 

The  impress  of  His  hand  the  vessels  keep 
Who  makes  and  throws  them  on  the  rubbish 

heap. 
But  if  they  turn  out  well  why  are  they  broken, 
If  ill,  the  blame  is  surely  His  to  reap. 

49 

Oh  threats  of  Hell  and  Hopes  of  Paradise ! 
One  thing  at  least  is  certain  —  This  Life  flies ; 
One  thing  is  certain  and  the  rest  is  Lies ; 
The  Flower  that  once  has  blown  for  ever  dies. 

50 

If  grief  be  the  Companion  of  thine  heart 
Brood  not  on  thine  own  sorrows  and  their 
smart; 


I 


Behold  another's  woe,  and  learn  thereby 
How  small  thine  own,  and  comfort  thy  sad 
heart. 

51 

O  my  beloved,  may  your  dad  to-morrows 
Stretch  out  before  you,  endless  as  my  sorrows; 
Haste  not  away,  I  have  but  wine  and  you, 
Yea !  life  is  naught  unless  from  you  it  borrows. 


52 

Oh!  that  there  were  some  place  where  man 

could  rest, 
Some  end  to  look  for  in  this  lonely  quest, 
Some  hope  that  in  a  hundred  thousand  years 
Our  dust  might    blossom  on  the    Mother's 

breast  ! 


». 


53 

If  I  were  God,  and  this  poor  world  were  mine, 

0  thou  shouldst  see  on  what  a  fair  design 

1  would  rebuild  it  like  a  dream  for  thee. 
Nor  shouldst  thou  ever  blush  to  call  it  thine. 


54 

If  I  were  God,  I  would  not  wait  the  years 
To  solve  the  mystery  of  human  tears  ; 
And,  unambiguous,  I  would  speak  my  will, 
Nor  hint  it  darkly  to  the  dreaming  seers. 

55 
Ah  Love  !  could  you  and  I  with  Fate  conspire 
To  grasp  this  sorry  Scheme  of  Things  entire, 
Would  not  we  shatter  it  to  bits — and  then 
Re-mould  it  nearer  to  the  Heart's  Desire ! 

56 

Love,  the  fair  day  is  drawing  to  its  close. 
The  stars  are  rising  and  a  soft  wind  blows, 
The  gates  of  heaven  are  opening  in  a  dream  — 
The  nightingale  sings  to  the  sleeping  rose. 

57 
With  twilight  dew  each  rose's  face  is  wet, 
Morning  was  gray  upon  them  when  we  met. 
Still  must  1  drink,  and  still  must  drink  with 

thee,  — 
T  is  many  laughing  hours  to  bed-time  yet. 


58 

To-night  pour  wine,  and  sing  a  dulcet  air, 
And  1  upon  thy  lips  will  hang,  O  fair ! 
Yea,  pour  some  wine  as  rosy  as  thy  cheeks, 
My  mind  is  troubled  like  thy  ruffled  hair. 

59 
Life's  caravan  is  hastening  on  its  way, 
Brood  not  on  troubles  of  the  coming  day. 
But  fill  the  wine-cup  ere  sweet  night  be  gone. 
And  snatch  a  pleasant  moment  while  you  may. 

60 

Yet  Ah,  that  Spring  should  vanish  with  the 

Rose! 
That  Youth's  sweet-scented  Manuscript  should 

close ! 
The  Nightingale  that  in  the  branches  sang. 
Ah,  whence,  and  whither  flown  again,  who 

knows ! 

61 

Ah,  Moon  of  my  Delight  who  know'st  no  wane. 
The  Moon  of  Heav'n  is  rising  once  again ; 


How  oft  hereafter  rising  shall  she  look 
Through    this  same   Garden   after    me  — in 
vain! 

62 

Heart  of  my  heart,  in  such  an  hour  as  this 
The  cup  of  life  brims  all  too  full  of  bliss, 
See,  it  runs  over  in  these  happy  tears  — 
How  strange  you  seem !  how  solemn  is  your 
kiss! 

63 

O  thou  who  in  the  Universe  entire 

The  object  art  of  all  my  fond  Desire, 

Far  dearer  art  thou  than  my  Quickening  Soul, 

More  precious  thou  than  Life's  Consuming  Fire ! 


64 

Like  to  the  intertwisted  melody 
Of  harp  and  lute  shall  our  true  wedding  be, 
And  such  a  marriage  of  fair  music  make 
That  none  shall  separate  the  THEE  from  ME. 


65 

Night,  with  a  sudden  splendor,  opens  wide 
Her  purple  robe,  and  bares  her  silver  side, 
The  moon,  her  bosom,  fills  the  world  with 

light, - 
Only  thy  breast  is  lovelier,  my  bride  ! 


IDENTIFICATION 
OF  THE  QUATRAINS 


1.  Le  Gallienne 

2.  Le  Gallienne 

3.  Le  Gallienne 

4.  Whinfield 

5.  Whinfield 

6.  Keene 

7.  Le  Gallienne 

8.  Garner 

9.  FitzGerald 

10.  FitzGerald 

11.  FitzGerald 

12.  Keene 

13.  Garner 

14.  Le  Gallienne 

15.  FitzGerald 

16.  Stokes 

17.  FitzGerald 

18.  Le  Gallienne 

19.  Le  Gallienne 


20.  FitzGerald 

21 .  Le  Gallienne 

22.  Keene 

23.  Le  Gallienne 

24.  Le  Gallienne 

25.  Le  Gallienne 

26.  Whinfield 

27.  Powell 

28.  Whinfield 

29.  FitzGerald 

30.  FitzGerald 

31.  Powell 

32.  Le  Gallienne 

33.  Garner 

34.  FitzGerald 

35.  Le  Gallienne 

36.  Cutter 

37.  Cutter 

38.  Cutter 


39.  FitzGerald 

40.  FitzGerald 

41.  FitzGerald 

42.  Cadell 

43.  FitzGerald 

44.  Le  Gallienne 

45.  Cutter 

46.  Powell 

47.  Keene 

48.  Keene 

49.  FitzGerald 

50.  Johnson 

51.  Le  Gallienne 

65. 


52.  Stokes 

53.  Le  Gallienne 

54.  Le  Gallienne 

55.  FitzGerald 

56.  Le  Gallienne 

57.  Le  Gallienne 

58.  Whinfield 

59.  Whinfield 

60.  FitzGerald 

61.  FitzGerald 

62.  Le  Gallienne 

63.  Garner 

64.  Le  Gallienne 
Le  Gallienne 


This  second  edition  of  The  Lover's  RubaiyXt,  edited  by 
Jessie  B.  Rittenhouse,  with  a  decorative  border  and 
an  endpiece  drawn  by  A.  Eleanor  Hobson,  is  printed 
for  Small,  Maynard  ^  Company,  in  September,  19O6, 
by  The  University  Press,  at  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


